I am only 23. And already feel tired. Tired of this lifestyle, tired of the fake people around me, and tired of flashing lights. As soon as I leave the house I get those pesky lights right in my face. That’s why I always wear XL sunglasses. It helps as a disguise too.

The only place close to home where I can relax a bit without being bothered seems to be Vegas. I always have a suite ready for me at the Palms there. A few people who have sworn the secrecy know me as Mrs. Smith, and all I have to do is tell them Mrs. Smith will be in town tomorrow.

I wear my hair messy and baggy clothes, cheap shoes and big sunglasses. Don’t want to give myself away. So far I was left alone, it feels good to walk the streets with no bodyguard and cameras chasing you. Sometimes when I’m all alone like this I start thinking too much, about where I am and about money. Yes, money. I have so much of it that, to be honest, I don’t even know where it all goes. My financial advisers take care of everything, all I have to do is swipe the credit card without even looking at the price. But when I’m alone like this and get to be normal again I realise how much people need money, that’s why I specifically asked my financial advisers to reserve as much as they think appropriate for charity.  But I’m so confused. I don’t feel like I own my money. And when I think like that I get depressed. Wouldn’t it be nice if I just left this lifestyle and start a family? I have enough to live a good life for the rest of my days. Hmmm….I’ll definitely do that in the future.

Now I’m back in my Prada and my Jimmy Choos. Flying back to L.A. With my goofy glasses on, I run away from a stalker. He’s flashing his camera at me. It’s OK, I’m used to it. I am back on schedule. Two parties tonight, lots of presents to buy, so a whole day shopping. Early rise tomorrow, on the set by 9, lunch with my boyfriend, fashion show in the afternoon, go to the gym later on, then meet with my agent. Yeah, I’m booked till autumn.

I can’t wait to go to Vegas again, be myself again. Or Mrs. Smith…Isn’t it funny how I can be myself only as passing as someone else?